


What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?

by st_mick



Series: Niffler [50]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Torchwood
Genre: But we know they'll get there :), Grief/Mourning, New Year's Eve, No way to treat a fine red wine, Slow Burn, This time Ianto is comforting Jack, growing friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 11:31:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21178718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_mick/pseuds/st_mick
Summary: Both Jack and Ianto have their demons.  Perhaps spending New Year's Eve together will help both of them face them down.





	What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?

Jack checked in on the camera feed, that night. Ianto arrived home around midnight, letting himself in to his flat and looking tired. He had what appeared to be a picture frame hugged to his chest. He set it in one of the chairs by the fire and went into the bedroom only long enough to change into track pants and a t-shirt.

He returned to turn on the gas fire and then made a pot of coffee. He poured it into a carafe, along with the rest of the bottle of rum, ginger syrup, and cinnamon. The carafe would keep it hot until it was consumed. 

Jack was poring over the reports that had come in from London, and he did not sleep that night. So he was in the perfect position to be able to tell that Ianto did not sleep, either. He watched the younger man as he drank heavily spiked coffee, stared at what Jack had deduced was a picture of Lisa, and cried quietly. Dawn was still more than an hour and a half off when at six, he sighed and heaved himself from the chair like an old man, and took the photo to his room.

Ianto placed the photo on his dresser and then slowly shaved, showered, and dressed. He had volunteered for duty that day, so he did not want to be late. It was only Jack and him again, and he hoped it would be a quiet day so he could work on implementing his plan for the archives. Jack had looked over Ianto’s plan and had given the go-ahead for it, and he was looking forward to diving in to a project that would help occupy his restless, weary, melancholy mind.

He stopped to pick up breakfast and once he arrived at the hub, he prepared coffee and carried a tray up to Jack’s office. Jack looked up from his work to see his friend looking pale and haggard but wearing a small smile as he brought in a tray with bacon and egg sandwiches piled on a plate and two mugs of a brew that smelled divine.

“Morning, Sir,” Ianto greeted him quietly, setting down the tray.

“Morning, Ianto.” He gestured for Ianto to join him. When Ianto had sat in the chair opposite him, he said, “I hope your second Christmas meal was better than the first.”

“Technically, it was my third, and yes,” Ianto’s lip quirked in a small smile. “It was far superior to the first. But the second may have been the highlight of the day.”

“Why’s that?” Jack asked, grinning at the implied compliment.

Ianto shrugged. “Quieter.”

Jack laughed. “No one has ever accused me of that.”

“I expect not, Sir. But I’m not doing so well with large crowds of people, right now. Even when they are dear to me.”

Jack nodded. “You look tired, Ianto.”

“I’m fine, Sir.”

“That you are, Ianto,” Jack grinned mischievously. 

Ianto blinked. It was the first time Jack had flirted with him since before… He recovered quickly. “Shall I be restocking the GU-297a forms, Sir?”

“The what?” Jack frowned.

“For documentation of sexual harassment in the workplace,” Ianto’s tired eyes were dancing with humor. “Sir.”

“There’s a form for that?” Jack asked, his eyes wide. He could never tell when Ianto was joking. It was too much to assume that he was flirting. “The G…”

“GU, Sir. Undoubtedly short for ‘Groping Underlings’.”

Jack laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “Well, that would be a shame, more paperwork.”

“Indeed, Sir.”

After a moment, Jack grew serious and sighed. “I like to think that someday you’ll give me more than that polite fiction, Ianto.”

Ianto paled. “Sir, I…”

Jack held up his hand. “You promised not to lie to me anymore, Ianto. I know this is a complicated question for you to answer right now, but I don’t want to hear ‘I’m fine’ from you any time soon, because I know it can’t possibly be true. I know you’re still beating the hell out of yourself for betraying me, even though I’ve forgiven you. But I’ll let you in on a little secret, here. The best way to rebuild trust between us is to be honest with me, when I ask you a question.”

“And will you be offering the same courtesy, Sir?”

Jack looked up sharply and was surprised to see that it was curiosity rather than resentment or malice that marked Ianto’s features. He sat back. “To the extent I’m able.”

“Of course, Sir,” Ianto said with a frown. It was more effective than shouting ‘bullshit’ at the top of his lungs, and Jack felt like he’d been kicked in the teeth as he saw the younger man fold into himself, just a bit. It was obvious that he had just reminded himself that he had no right to expect anything of Jack.

Jack sighed. “And I will tell you when I’m not able,” he said, surprising himself. But the trust between them had not been destroyed by Ianto, alone. It would take both of them to rebuild it.

“Thank you, Sir,” Ianto said with a small smile. “And I am tired. I didn’t sleep last night. With the exception of Christmas Eve, the holiday has been a bit of a mixed bag, and very taxing.”

Jack smiled. “Thank you, Ianto.”

Each man began his workday feeling a bit more optimistic than before.

***

Everyone returned from their various holidays the day after Boxing Day to find the rift on a slight upswing of activity. Several days of all hands on deck got them to New Year’s Eve in what felt like the blink of an eye. Jack and Ianto both had New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day off. It was after midnight on the thirtieth that Ianto brought Jack his final coffee of the day.

“Any plans for ringing in the new year, Sir?” Ianto asked, settling down to share a quiet moment before heading home. He was tired enough that he was hopeful for a good night’s sleep.

“I usually get in the car and drive until I’m as far from the hub as I can manage,” Jack admitted.

“Understandable,” Ianto took a careful sip of his coffee.

“So you know what happened, then.”

Ianto gave Jack a compassionate look and nodded. “I do.”

“Yvonne’s files?”

Ianto nodded again. “As I said, there was almost nothing about you or Torchwood Three in the regular archives.” He cocked his head. “How did you manage that, anyway?”

Jack shrugged. “Over the years I made it a point to scour London’s archives at least once a year to eradicate whatever they had on me.”

Ianto vaguely wondered how Jack managed that. He wasn’t really cat burglar material.

Jack laughed. “I see the wheels turning. Remember, I have access to keys that can open any door, and believe it or not, I can be sneaky, when I’m inclined.”

Ianto gave a lopsided smile. “I have no doubt of that, Sir.” He felt a brief pang of regret that T1 was gone, for an entirely different reason, than normal. That would have been a fun job to pull.

“Gotta say, I am intrigued by that expression,” Jack grinned. It was the most spark he’d seen in Ianto’s eyes since that night they’d captured Myfanwy.

“Just thinking that figuring out a way to burgle a place like Torchwood Tower would be an interesting challenge,” Ianto shrugged, his conscience clear that he wasn’t lying to Jack, despite knowing that Jack would never believe him capable of such a thing.

Jack laughed. “It’s not like nicking a rugby jersey from a local shop, Ianto.” Wasn’t that what he’d been caught shoplifting?

“I’m wounded that you think that’s the extent of my skillset, Sir.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. His gut told him that Ianto had just let something of himself be seen, knowing full well that Jack wouldn’t believe what he was being shown. He remembered again the admission that Ianto had broken into Yvonne’s files, pretty much just for the hell of it. “Something about your skillset that you’d like to share, Ianto?”

“Oh, I think I’ve given you enough to be getting on with, Sir.”

There was that spark again. It was mischief and it was trouble and it was far more distracting than Jack was prepared for it to be. He reeled himself in and circled back to the topic at hand. Or one of them, at any rate. “So why were you looking into Three, and long before the Tower fell, by the sounds of it?”

Ianto shrugged. “I was curious. Grew up around here. Heard mention of the rift one day, and wanted to know more. Found a lot of history, but there were… holes. I eventually realized that all of the holes were Jack-shaped.” He blinked at the shocked look on Jack’s face. “Well, that’s what I’d call it, now. Didn’t know you, then. But you were what was missing from all of the records. I guess I just found it curious that the head of Torchwood Three was completely missing from the Torchwood Three files.”

“And what was in Yvonne’s files?”

“Ooh, lots of interesting things,” Ianto grinned, and Jack laughed at the reappearance of that flash of mischief. He vaguely wondered if he was getting glimpses of the real Ianto, of what would come shining through when he finally emerged from his grief.

“Such as?”

Ianto shrugged. “She’d moved all of her files on the Doctor to her personal archives. And there was a file on you, though it didn’t have much besides that grainy CCTV capture and a lot of notes about you not being injured, after having been injured. And some other odd notes about ‘sightings’ of you, throughout history. But most of that was explained by the suspicion that you were one of the Doctor’s companions.”

Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Seemed like his secrets were safe. Most records of him had been here at Three, where he had been seconded. He had these hidden safely away. But there had been reports made to One. Those were the ones that he had systematically eliminated from One’s archives, well before the invention of security cameras. And even after their invention, it was amazing what one could get away with, with a sharp suit and a quick wit and a massive pair of…

His thoughts trailed off, and he found himself looking closely at his refugee from Canary Wharf.

Gods and goddesses, but he really was a blind man, wasn’t he?

“Sir?” Ianto returned his stare, curious.

Jack chuckled to himself and gestured for Ianto to continue. Most of Yvonne’s files were about the void sphere and what would come to be known as the ghost shifts. There were other odds and ends, and Jack was inclined to see if Ianto could try to remember them all. After all, if Yvonne had her eye on such things directly, they could not have been good. He mentioned this to Ianto, who agreed to compile what he could remember.

“I am sorry, Jack.” Ianto looked grieved on Jack’s behalf, and he found the compassion warming.

“It was…” Jack found he had no words to express the anguish of that night. But he could tell from Ianto’s expression that he didn’t need to.

Ianto nodded. “I think I can imagine.”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say, I rather think you can.”

“I was going to hide from my friends and order takeaway and watch stupid movies,” Ianto said, his voice hesitant. “You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like.”

Jack gave Ianto a smile. “Well, Christmas Eve was a damned fine evening. Why not?”

***

Jack showed up on Ianto’s doorstep around eight on New Year’s Eve. He was still getting used to seeing the younger man in more casual attire – he didn’t count the weeks of Ianto’s suspension, because in his mind Ianto had been ill during that time, and his attire was what one would expect for someone recovering from an illness. No, he wasn’t used to seeing a healthy Ianto in faded black jeans and a blue Henley thermal top that did amazing things for Ianto’s coloring, build, and those eyes.

Jack did everything in his power not to stare, but Ianto’s eyes looked electric. The effect was stunning, even though the younger man still hadn’t regained all of the weight he’d lost. Persuading him to eat at regular intervals was an ongoing battle, and Jack vaguely worried there was an eating disorder lurking somewhere nearby. 

Ianto would have been mortified by Jack’s concern. There was no disorder per se, he simply had no appetite. He had noticed, of course. It was his body after all, how could he not? He simply assumed the lack of appetite went hand in glove with the rest of the overload caused by Canary Wharf. He took it as a sign of progress that he actually occasionally felt hungry, and when he did sit down to eat, he didn’t have to force himself to choke down enough to ensure he wouldn’t pass out, at some later point.

Ianto invited Jack into the flat and headed to the kitchen, where Jack deposited the several bottles of wine and the sack of snacks he’d brought. Ianto poked through the bag, chuckling at the crisps, cheeses, crackers, olives, biscuits, and…

“Jack?”

“Ianto?” Jack looked up from opening the bottle of wine he’d brought to see a concerned look on Ianto’s face.

“Just what are your expectations, for the evening?” Ianto asked, holding up the disconcertingly large box of condoms that had been lying at the bottom of the sack.

“Oh. Shit,” Jack grabbed the box and stuffed it into the pocket of his greatcoat. “Just stocking up. Not an expectation, no matter how much I may enjoy harassing you.” He gave a nervous grin, and Ianto chuckled, reaching out to take the greatcoat and hang it on the coat tree next to the door.

Jack had been toying with the idea of going out on the pull, later. Blow off some steam, among other things. He had meant to pocket the box before arriving at Ianto’s, but he’d gotten distracted. He had no idea why Ianto finding the box suddenly made him feel awkward, but he tried to laugh it off, as Ianto seemed to be doing.

“Go see if there’s anything you want to listen to, and I’ll set these things out,” Ianto offered. 

Jack headed to the living room with their wine. Ianto had an early Green Day CD playing, though not too loudly. There may have been a time that envisioning Ianto listening to “Basket Case” would have been beyond Jack’s ability to imagine. But many of his illusions had been shattered under the watchful eye of that surveillance camera. 

As just one example, Ianto’s taste in music was far more eclectic than anyone had imagined. Of course, their original misconception was partly due to the fact that their youngest operative only listened to classical and instrumental music at the hub. 

When asked, Ianto had confided that this was a memory hack he’d learned at One – he was able to retain more information if there was some sort of organized sound in the background, but lyrics tended to interfere with the process. 

Ianto had an impressively strong memory. It was not, as some supposed, eidetic, but it was formidable, nonetheless. He had spent a great deal of time and effort making it so. After all, memory was something that could be cultivated and improved, and he was constantly working to do this.

Yet again, Jack found himself wondering what it was that drove the younger man to push himself so hard, as though he felt the need to prove his worth.

He shook these thoughts away as he looked at through Ianto’s CD’s. He was surprised again at the wide variety of music he saw. Besides the punk and alt selections, there were, perhaps unsurprisingly, ethereal Celtic vocals, and – more surprisingly – a wide range of jazz standards. Jack quickly (and gleefully) latched on to a collection of Ella Fitzgerald duets with Louis Armstrong. He allowed the song that was playing to end, then changed out the CD’s.

When the first notes began to play, Ianto called from the kitchen. “Nice choice!” He entered the living room a few moments later, carrying a tray of cheeses, crackers, and olives, and he and Jack sat, enjoying the wine, food, and company until they decided to order something for dinner.

They ate and watched movies, taking turns choosing them from Ianto’s substantial collection of DVD’s. As guest, Jack chose the first. He picked a comedy, hoping to hear Ianto laugh. He wasn’t sure when he’d last heard the sound, but he was fated to be disappointed. For Ianto, it still hurt too much to laugh outright, though he did chuckle, a few times. Jack chose to be pleased with what he could get.

Ianto chose a thriller, and it wrapped up, just a few minutes shy of midnight. Jack hustled to pick the next movie, but found himself freezing at the sounds of fireworks drifting in through the closed window.

“Jack?” Ianto was beside him quickly, chaffing one of his arms. He recognized the look of near panic on Jack’s face.

“Now I remember why I always get out of town,” Jack mumbled.

Ianto grabbed the Green Day CD and shoved it back into the player and cranked it up, loud enough to drown out the muffled fireworks, but not loud enough to inhibit conversation. He led Jack to the couch. He hesitated, but then took Jack’s hand and began to speak.

“It’s January first, two thousand and seven. Happy New Year, Jack.” He squeezed his hand. Then he knelt before Jack, pressing the older man’s feet into the floor. “You don’t have to tell me what you’re seeing. Just come back, and we’ll watch another ridiculous movie and eat too much junk food and…” he trailed off. “Tell me what to do, Jack.”

Jack blinked at the concerned tone of the man now kneeling before him. The earnest expression, looking up at him from that position, almost had Jack embarrassing himself, but he was able to find his composure. “Maybe some wine?” he rasped.

Ianto quickly went to grab another bottle. He returned with it and several selections from the snacks Jack had brought. He tore open a bag of biscuits and jolted Jack into the moment when he dipped a chocolate chunk biscuit into his red wine.

“Ianto?”

“Yes, Jack?”

“You do realize that’s a rather fine red, don’t you?”

Ianto hummed around the wine-softened biscuit in his mouth. “Don’t know much about wine, actually.” Then he hummed again. “Really, though. You should try this.” He dunked his biscuit back into the wine, causing Jack to cringe. Before Jack knew what was happening, Ianto had stuffed the dripping biscuit into Jack’s mouth.

(It would be well over a century before Jack would admit to enjoying chocolate chunk biscuits dipped into a fine red wine, despite the fact that he never turned the treat down.)

Jack closed his eyes and chewed slowly. “That is no way to treat such a good wine,” he groused, even as Ianto shoved another wine-soaked biscuit into his mouth.

Once they had eaten their fill, Ianto said, “Would you like to talk about it?”

Jack sighed. “Tell me what you know, and I’ll see if I can manage…” he trailed off. He _really_ didn’t want to do this, but he knew he would set a bad example for Ianto, if he didn’t.

Ianto gathered his thoughts for a moment before speaking. “Alex Hopkins was the head of Torchwood Three. At the turning of the millennium, he added his name to the Red List by shooting every member of his team,” he paused here, eyeing Jack, “except yourself.” His hesitation let Jack know he had his doubts that Jack had escaped, unscathed.

At the expression on Jack’s face, Ianto reached out and took his hand again. “He reached out to Yvonne before he did it, saying only that Torchwood wasn’t prepared for what the twenty-first century would bring.”

“It was just minutes before midnight,” Jack said in a low voice. “I’d come in from hunting this big, buggy alien, and saw them, just lying there.” He frowned, wondering if some of Ianto’s emotional state had worn off on him, because he suddenly had tears in his eyes. “And there sits Alex, saying he’d done it, as a mercy.” 

He sniffed. Yvonne and her cronies had come down from London to debrief him, but he’d never spoken of this. Not really. Ianto was still holding his hand. He was looking at their joined hands, giving Jack the gift of not being under any sort of scrutiny as he spoke of Alex putting the gun to his own head and pulling the trigger. Of the warm spatter of blood and brains on his face as he watched the last of Torchwood Three fall.

“I’m so sorry, Jack,” Ianto said quietly as the older man brushed away tears before they could fall. “This life, it…” he sighed. “It seems to take us and twist us into something we never thought we’d be. But somehow…” he looked into the older man’s eyes, “…somehow, we find a way to keep going, because we’re the ones who can help people, when no one else can.”

“Is that what keeps you going?” Jack asked.

Ianto shrugged. “I’m not sure I’m still going, at the moment. But I want to help people. And knowing what I know, this is where I can do that.” He just wished he could be himself, doing this. Hiding himself, not being himself, it hurt as much as the losses he’d suffered.

Jack reached out and wrapped his arms around Ianto, burying his face in the younger man’s neck. If Ianto was surprised by the action, he didn’t show it. He simply stroked Jack’s hair and spoke of nonsense things until the older man could pull himself together, again.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said, sitting away from Ianto.

“Don’t be,” Ianto gave a small smile. “You’ve certainly had more than enough of my snot and tears all over your shirts.” He chuckled. “Seems like I owed you a shoulder, for all the times you’ve helped me.”

Jack gave a lopsided smile. “Then thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Jack.”

Jack stood and went to pick out their next movie.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! The holidays have been fun to write, but there's always that January crash to consider... But with February comes Imbolc, and Ianto's training will become more interesting as more time passes.
> 
> And I just realized - this is Part 50 of the Niffler series!!! That's completely insane, but I'm incredibly pleased. Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> And as always, thanks for reading!


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